


Oh, Can't You Hear The Scratching

by Moonlights_Inkwell



Series: The Bard and Little Miss [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier needs love, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27164137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlights_Inkwell/pseuds/Moonlights_Inkwell
Summary: A serious injury leads to you being forced to leave your travelling days behind you and try to reintergrate yourself into a life you left behind. But it seems something from travelling has decided not to leave you
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: The Bard and Little Miss [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907491
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Oh, Can't You Hear The Scratching?

**Author's Note:**

> So. Um. This was meant to be some post Mountain smut, but turned into some semi-angst and is probably gonna turn into a series (and kinda (?) a companion piece to my Oxenfurt Series) where Jaskier and the Reader just sorta embrace some domestic bliss. So yeah. Title taken from That Unwanted Animal.

The first chill of Autumn is enough to wake you from a dead slumber. The cold nips at the tip of your nose, leaving it almost painful and chaffed, and you curse internally at the windows of your small home, which lately has done little to keep out either rain or cold. Pushing yourself up from the warmth of your fur-lined bed, you sit up and wince when the chill hits your chest, causing you to heave out a sigh as if you had been punched, blinking bleary-eyed before turning to gaze out of your window. It’s still dark, but no longer pitch. The sky is the colour of the violets that grow along the path that leads to your cottage but paling slowly, no sight of sun or moon, cloud or stars. Soon the horizon will be warmed by the orange glow of the sun, but right now you find yourself in this blissful timelessness, caught between dusk and dawn, sleep and awake. Moments like this feel rare, special, and you dedicate them to memory, to remind yourself of the mundane beauty of the world when you feel lonely and upset. These moments are wonderful, and your lips turn up in a tired smile. 

Sleep is trying desperately to overtake you once more, begging you sweetly to rest as long as humanly possible- after hard nights working in the tavern, you deserve rest and respite, but you fight against it. Swinging your legs out of bed and standing up, you groan in annoyance. 

“Melitele’s tits.” You curse, slurring with sleep. Padding barefoot to the window, you lean against the wall and rub your eyes, toying with the thin fabric that hangs to the side of the windows. It’s much too early in the day, and much too early for you to be feeling this way. This feeling only normally comes with Winter but reminds you all too much of the day you met Jaskier. It was as if fate had insisted you to be ready for him. Your heart sinks at the thought of him. 

You left the Witcher and your Bard behind in the spring. It wasn’t an easy choice, or even really a choice that you made, but it was the only one that was given to you. It came as a result of fighting a Wyvern. You hate Wyverns, always have and always will, but the fight against this one had cemented that in your mind, seeing as it sunk its claws into the left side of your face, and nearly blinded you. You didn’t even really know what damage it had caused until you sunk, faint, to your knees and Jaskier screeched in horror at the sight of you. I'm not that ugly, am I? You thought to yourself and chuckled slightly before falling unconscious. 

You woke in a healer’s tent, barely able to comprehend spoken language as the medic told Geralt you were lucky to be alive, never mind retaining the vision in both eyes. Something in the back of your mind told you that you should be in pain, excruciating pain, but you can’t feel a thing. Your face would likely keep the marks of the beast forever though, he told the Witcher, voice as emotionless as possible. The hand holding your own tightens its grip. Jaskier. You smiled and cracked open the uninjured eye, but the smile faded at the sight of his red, tearstained face. He looked like he had been sobbing, and he probably had. He fretted about you when you got splinters, so the idea that you could have died was too much for him. He glanced down at you, and upon seeing your open eyes cupped your face gently and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. It’s like no kiss he’d given before, it’s full of something you haven’t felt from him, sadness. Regret. It feels like goodbye. When he pulls back his lips and chin are stained with your blood. 

“I’ll find you in winter.” He muttered and your eyes narrowed in confusion. Tears overtook him once more, and he dragged you into his lap to sob onto your bloodied blouse- he'd never been squeamish about blood before, but in that moment, it was as if he was trying to get as much of your blood on him as possible, to mar and mark himself with proof that he was yours. Your fingers threaded through his hair, but whatever the Healer had given you meant that you couldn’t feel the softness of the chestnut locks, smell the musk and lavender scent that you know permeates from him over the coppery blood. It's hollow. You can’t feel him at all and would have taken the agonising pain of the wound if it meant that you could feel the touch of his skin on yours. 

“Till winter.” 

It was goodbye. At least for the time being. 

Geralt took you home on Roach the next day, and insisted you remain. Retune yourself back to the life in your village, rather than a life that will kill you at any and every turn. He said it so firmly you couldn’t force out an argument, and so you’ve remained since that day; remaining in the old home you resided in just outside of the village, returning to your job in the tavern, and trying in vain to pretend that you aren’t in pain, not spending your days missing your bard, counting down until the seasons change and Geralt will return to Kaer Morhen and you can feel a dandelion on your skin once more. 

Absent-mindedly, you drag the tips of your fingers over the fading scar over your eye, it’s no longer garishly red and surrounded by mottled green, yellow and blueing bruised skin, instead almost white, with a strange shining quality about it. You don’t hate it, but you hate what it represents. Weakness. You found scars wonderful as a child, proof of how adventures had marked you, even on the road with Geralt it had been something of note, proof of how no monster had felled you yet. This one has felled you, left you more than just marked. It’s a conversation starter with patrons at the pub though, it sees you regaling people with your tales of traveling with a Witcher, and sees the pockets of your pinny grow heavy with coin as the nights draw to days, but the song starts up and you feel your throat begin to swell closed, lips suddenly wordless and eyes swelling with tears. Toss a Coin to Your Witcher is capable of reducing you to tears, your Dandelion would be proud were it under different circumstances. You miss him like a lost limb. After so long around him, always touching, always grinning, always talking, the absence makes you uncomfortable, especially at night. 

Jaskier had always been there at night, oh what the luxury of your travelling partner being your lover had been during nights on the road. The sound of him singing in the darkness, illuminated only by the firelight and framed by the canopy of the trees, as if on a stage and performing for an audience of only you, how it felt when he dragged you, often kicking and squealing in laughter, towards your shared bedroll. While you are glad of a permanent bed, you miss sleeping beside him. It feels childish to admit that you find it hard to sleep without him, even if you are only admitting to yourself, but it is difficult without him; you miss the feeling of his arms around your waist, head between your shoulders and breath fanning against your skin, lulling you to sleep. Not only that, but you miss the sweetness that comes before sleep, tiredly resting on his chest and listening to him talk- usually utter nonsense you care little for, but enamoured by his passion and way of speaking- or singing, ringed fingers burying themselves in your hair while your fingers thread through the Shag Rug of chest hair. 

The shadow that passes by the window doesn’t catch your eye, distracted too much by memory, and you turn tiredly back toward bed but stop. Bed will do nothing but remind you of the chill behind you, lack of arms about your waist and head resting in the hollow between your shoulder blades. That won’t do. Instead, you find yourself padding to the small room that keeps the hearth, lip trapped between gnawing teeth as you begin a search for a means to light the fire and warm yourself a serving of last night’s stew but stop. Scratching. Scratching. Something is scratching at the front door. That’s not normal. All your life there has never been scratching at the door, even in spite of its close proximity to the woods no creature normally drags their claws along the wood, save for once, when a wolf had found itself lost and confused, but even that had been a pup. Just Imagining things, you try in vain to convince yourself, hand falling onto the matches and drawing a sigh of relief from you. It takes a second or so for your hands to stop shaking, but when the scratching dies you manage to strike a match and start a fire beneath the hanging pot of stew. Warmth, at long last, and light too. 

You sit on the floor to warm yourself in front of the hearth, humming softly along with the phantom of a song you hear in your dreams. It’s not one you know too well, you don’t even know if the song has lyrics, but it's one of Jaskier's and that means it’s your favourite. Tears that threaten to fall blur your vision and in the glowing flames you almost swear you can see him, sat across from you. 

It’s familiar, hauntingly so. You can all but feel the hard stone beneath your feet turn to prickly, drying grass, your sleep shirt turning to almost threadbare chemise and trousers. You can even feel the bruising ribs from an especially rough incident with a werewolf that saw the Witcher walking to a nearby village for food to help you feel better. The flames in front of you ripple and roar, causing the wood to pop and crackle, and with each noise you jump slightly and flinch in pain. Jaskier sits across from you, staring at you intensely and strumming at his lute. He’s beautiful in the light of the fire, lashes dark and his eyes focused, taking in every flinch and jostle. 

“Try not to move so, Little Miss. You'll only hurt yourself. Well. Hurt yourself more.” He's trying to sound unaffected, but the intensity of his gaze betrays him. You worried him; a skill you’ve been honing in your time with Geralt and him, and you know how he worries. He's more of a mother-hen than a fighter in the first place, flapping about and acting as if you’re some delicate flower in polite society rather than someone who enjoys being combative, but combined with your human fragility? He frets. Overwhelmingly so. His eyes, the colour of the sea after a storm, moves from your eyes to where he knows your injury to be and then back to your eyes once more. You can’t quite meet his eyes, distracting yourself by looking over the intricate ivory embroidery that decorates his doublet. 

You hate worrying him. He’s been so kind to you, always so giving: making sure you have enough stew to eat, warm enough when autumn comes about, threatening any man who looks at you with anything less than respect. He knows how you revel in fighting, but each and every injury you get sees the bard fretting even more so than normal. Though you can't meet his gaze you can feel his eyes on you, and hear the soft melody he's plucking, which makes you shift on the spot, letting out a pained moan as you do. Focused on the searing pain in your ribs, you don’t quite hear the bard gasp out your name and rush to your side, only knowing he's even there when you feel a warm palm rest on your thigh and turn to see him on his knees in front of you. 

“Fucking hell, Little Miss, are you alright? Do you need something? Shit... I- I can try and fetch Geralt, he won’t be too far-" The brunet rambles, eyes wide and grip on your thigh tightening, which serves to make your breath hitch- but not from the pain. Jaskier is always touching you, you’re quite certain he was not given sufficient human contact as a child, but never has he touched somewhere as... intimate as your thigh. The heat of his hand seeps through your trousers, and goes straight to your core and face- cheeks bright pink. He's still rambling, you realise, and reach out gently to cup his cheek, silencing him immediately. Stubble you can’t see on his boyish face prickles your palm, and you meet his eyes once more, noticing how wide the pitch of his eyes had grown. 

“I’m fine, Dandelion. Truly. Just moved too fast... bruises, and such.” You laugh weakly, tilting your head. “It will pass. Just need to distract myself.” 

He laughs with you, hand squeezing the meat of your thigh and so close you can feel his breath fanning against your skin. 

“I can distract you if you like?” He offers, voice lower than normal. You smile in return and nod, expecting a song or joke but what you get instead is his lips pressed against yours. Warm, wind chapped, perfect- 

A log pops and you come from your memory, blinking and sniffing as the smell of the soup makes you smile. It’s not much, but it’s enough. Before you can reach up for a spoon to mix it, you hear it again. The scratching. It's back, and worrying. You miss Geralt, not for the first time that night, missing how his acute hearing would be able to tell you if it was an animal or human- specifically if it was a wolf as you suspected. Scratching, scratching and scratching. It worries you, but not enough for you to become fearful; instead making you smirk, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits and shifting towards the sword you've kept beside the door. Less than a second later you dart toward the door, and grip the cold hilt of the blade in one hand, body pressed against the wall beside the door. The scratching stops when you move which only makes you hold your breath, eyes slipping shut as you try to relax once more. Calm doesn’t come, and instead you heave out a sigh and call out, 

“...Hello? Kacsper? Is that you?” It wouldn’t be the first time your employer had come by in the night to ensure a young woman alone would be safe at night, which you thought to be immensely invasive but, in this moment, you cannot stop yourself from hoping it was him. 

“...Dear Heart?” A voice you didn’t expect at all replies, weak and choked. Jaskier. Only Jaskier has ever called you anything like Dear Heart, the only person to ever even think to call you by pet names, but not in that voice. Pained, like he was injured. Something logical in the back of your mind tries to remind you of Dopplers or any number of creatures that can change their voices, but the sound of your lover’s voice is enough to see you throw caution to the wind. You drop the blade to rip the door open, completely unfazed by the ear-splitting clatter of steel on wood. The door is open before you realise how forcefully you pull and there, shivering in the autumnal cold, is your bard. 

It’s hard to tell in the minimal light of your cooking fire, but he looks a mess. Chestnut hair splayed across his forehead in wet clumps, from rain or sweat you have no idea, deep red doublet and trousers stained with something that could be either mud or blood, and eyes sunken and darkened from a lack of sleep and something else. A sort of... hunger, longing that you know, but not in this intensity- he would look at you like this before kissing you, or bedding you, like you were ephemeral and easily gone without his touch. His frame lurches, holding to the door frame for stability. 

“Jask?” You whisper, and it’s enough for him to surge forward and crash his mouth to yours. The look in his eyes mirrors how he kisses you, hungry and rough, cracked lips moving against your own in such a way that you almost fear the blood you can taste is your own, but it’s definitely not. You feel like you ought push him away, chide him for coming so late and frightening you, but instead your arms wind around his neck to pull him closer still, lips moving gently against his, trying to slow the kiss. It’s been so long, too long, without his lips on yours, months without his touch when you would seldom live an hour without his touch. He takes the hint and the kiss instead turns sweet though still desperate, his hands resting on your hips even after you pull back and stare up at him like he’s a phantom or dream. “Jaskier, what are you doing here?” 

“...I missed you.” He says simply, voice cracking and breaking your heart at just how sad he sounds. “I. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude, Little Miss. I should-" 

“Shut the door, Buttercup.” You interrupt him, hands sliding from his throat to hold his cheek. “And sit down. You look dead on your feet. Where's Ger?” 

Jaskier flinches at the mention of the white-haired man but does turn to close your front door. As soon as it’s closed, keeping the cold somewhat at bay, his arms are around you once more and face buried into your hair, drawing a contented sigh from you while your own arms work their way around his back. It’s been far too long. He feels like he always has, soft but with a firm layer of muscle just beneath, not obvious by looking at him, but there none the less. Hugs have always felt restrictive, like being caged but his have always felt like safety. It’s the same now, just more tight, and you cannot tell if he knows how tightly he’s holding you. Honestly, you can’t bring yourself to care. He could leave a Jaskier shaped bruise on your flesh so long as he robs you of the Jaskier shaped hole in your heart. He doesn’t smell as usual though, lavender and musk replaced with sweat and sulphur, telling you just how long it must have been since last he bathed. 

Deft fingers wind into the wispy hair at your nape at the same time that lips press to the crown of your head, followed by a deep inhale, you aren’t the only one to have missed the simple things like this. So much is hidden away in touch and smell, especially when not too long ago the two of you spent near every moment joined at the hip. 

“You smell like posies.” He mumbles into your hair, and you smile weakly at the observation. 

“You smell like death, Darling.” You reply before you really consider how mean the words are, though you hope your voice is playful. “I'll draw you a bath-" 

“No, no, no. Don’t... don't move, Muse. Let me... Let me cherish this moment. Reunions are supposed to be a happy time.” He doesn’t sound happy; he sounds as if he's choking back tears. “Gods, how I’ve missed you, Dear Heart.” 

“I missed you too, Buttercup. Like a lost limb.” It should seem a melodramatic turn of phrase, but it truly isn’t. It was like losing half of yourself to be away from him. Having him wrapped around you now is the closest to normal you’ve felt since leaving his side. “...Why are you here though, Love? Oughtn't you be with Ger-" 

“Don’t say his name.” The usually sweet voice of your bard comes out venomous, and his grip only tightens, “I’m not travelling with the prick.” 

The Prick. That’s new. So many of Jaskier’s songs are about the Witcher, but now he's the prick. You can’t help but blink in confusion, head tilting to look at your man but he instead swoops his head down to kiss you gently. He's trying to distract you, of that you're certain, but you decide it best to indulge him, kissing him sweetly and pulling back before he can deepen it. 

“...Stew.” 

It’s his turn to look confused, head tilted to one side to stare at you while you pull away. 

“Stew?” 

“Do you want some?” Gesturing blindly to the pot behind you, you begrudgingly break free of his hold on you. “You look hungry. Stew, a bath and then bed. I think it would do you the world of good.” 

“When did you become a domestic goddess, Little Miss?” He asks incredulously, lips turning up in a smile. He’s taunting you, but you don’t care as long as he stays smiling. “My Little Miss would sooner skin a deer with her teeth than cook.” 

“You can thank my mother for that. Old habits die hard, even if they are ones to make me a perfect wife.” 

“You’re a perfect wife already.” He says with a degree of finality in his statement, sitting by the fire. He makes it sound like you are his wife, and the thought brings a blush to your cheeks. “Are you going to join me?” 

“I need to get bowls for the stew.” 

“I mean in the bath.” He shoots a wink in your direction that you suppose is meant to be flirty, but on this defeated looking Jaskier it comes across more pathetic than anything else. Had you been asked an hour before, you would have moved heaven and hell for a chance to be in your miniscule bath with the Bard, using bathing as a preamble to ride him until your brain and legs turn to jelly and there's more water out of the bath than in it, but this Jaskier needs a gentle hand, and a helping hand to remove the layer of grime and melancholy that is covering his entire being. “You... You don’t have to. I. I'm being presumptuous, aren’t I?” 

“How?” You ask weakly, descending to your knees at the bard's side. “It's hardly the first time you've asked to see me unclothed.” 

“It’s been months. You probably have a new lover. I mean, look at you, how could you not?” He asks, gesturing to your body as if it was supposed to mean something to you. “You look like a gift from on high, and I... I left you here. To grow soft, and gentle and domestic.” His hand rests on your thigh but there’s nothing romantic in the touch, just longing. Like, despite his hand on your bard flesh, you're in fact a thousand miles away or he's lamenting to the spectre of a lost love. “Someone else has snapped you up, and I’ve lost you, and come here, and you’re too polite to say no.” 

“We both know I would never be made to do anything I don’t want.” You smile, and lean in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. He chuckles softly, and watches you as you ladle some stew into a bowl and hand it to him. “And I don’t. Have anyone else.” 

“You said a man's name when I was at the door.” 

“My employer. He’s... odd. Constantly sniffing about.” You reassure him, watching him spoon up some of the both and sip it before sighing, from the taste or reassured that you love him still. “If I didn’t want you, I’d have stabbed you.” 

“You. You waited.” It’s a statement, and you nod simply in agreement. 

“You said you'd come in winter.” His eyes focus on you once more, drinking you in like it is both the first and last time he shall see you. 

“You look like you did the night we first met.” He says conversationally, and you smile, remembering how he had winked at you mid song. It feels a hundred years ago, though you know it couldn’t be more than six years ago. “I thought you were the most sublime creature on the planet. There’s not an ounce of feral in you, just... beauty and softness, with something wild behind the eyes.” He says soft like it’s a thing to be admired, not disparaged. His eyes, stormy blue and sad look about your childhood home with nostalgia for a time that you don’t know. “You look like a life worth living, Dear Heart.” 

“...A life worth living?” 

“Yes. This. This you, all gentle and half asleep, looking at me like you love me. A little home and a fire, Darling Love telling me to eat and bathe and sleep. Domestic. A life worth living.” 

“I do love you Jaskier.” You interrupt, letting the words fall off your tongue like they’re the easiest thing in the world to say. They feel that way. 

“You shouldn’t. I left you here.” The words come out hollow, and you take his hand from your thigh to your lips and kiss it. You can all but see the knotted weaves and threads of his mind, and hope the kiss will soothe them, even a little. His hand tugs free for a moment to ghost his fingers along the scar on your face, making you shiver. 

“I was hurt.” 

“I should have stayed. Should have stayed by your side.” 

“You’re here now, Julian. That’s enough.” It shouldn’t be, but it is. He's here, not exactly as you’d like him to be, but having him beside you is more than enough. The comforting presence of warmth beside you is more than enough to wipe away the months of absence. 

He sighs your name like a prayer, “I love you.” 

“As you should.” You tease, and he places the bowl beside him to take your hands in his, prompting you to give up all pretence of propriety to instead climb onto his lap, intertwined fingers bridging the gap between your bodies. “You’re upset.” 

“At the sight of the love of my life looking like a perfect little wife in an empty home.” Obtuse Jaskier might just be your least favourite form of the Bard, him trying to mask feelings he wears so openly, like he thinks you a fool. You’re unwilling to pry, though, so bite your tongue. “I’m half convinced I died on that mountain, and you’re just what my mind has created as a dying thought.” 

“Shush.” You coo, lips chastely brushing against his. “You're as alive as I am, keep the melancholies out of it. If I look like some... darling bride then be quiet, seeing as that would make you a very foolish husband to spend your night bemoaning your fears and not kissing me.” 

He chuckles at that, a small triumph, but enough to fill your heart to bursting point. 

“I’d be a fool for leaving you here alone.” He starts but a sharp noise of annoyance cuts him off. 

“Stay forever to make up for it, then.” You retort, “Sleep next to me until I can’t remember a single morning without you.” 

He blinks at that, enrapturing you in how the black of his eyes swells until you cannot see any of the blue. 

“You want me to stay?” 

“For always.” 

He grins, almost wide enough to distract from the tears that well in his eyes and you lean in to kiss him once more, his hands settling on your hips to pull you closer still. You've missed this, the stupidity that fills your head when his lips are on yours, tongue gently trailing along the seam of your mouth, never invasive, just inquisitive. 

“You truly do need a bath though.” You grumble against his mouth, Jaskier pulls back in mock indignation. 

“I know you don’t actually mean that and just want to undress me.” 

“Oh, shut up, Dandelion.” 

His hands turn from cradling to tickling, sending you into reams of laughter that he echoes. All, for just a moment, feels right in the world, now that he's with you again.


	2. Why Don't You Just Tell Them All to Just Fuck Off Love and Be Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Jaskier play a game of pretend, with some unexpected consequences

“ You know,” Jaskier says lightly, cutting through the silence of the empty tavern, making you look up  to meet his eyes. “You wore that dress the first night I met you.” 

You had almost forgotten Jaskier was still in the tavern. He was being strangely quiet before speaking up,  so quiet you could have sworn he had gone home when the drinkers  had, yet there he is. Sat there,  still holding his Lute on his knee and watching you like a hawk. He’s taken to performing on nights when you  work. Locals love him, bards seldom come through your village, and those who do don’t stay for long, so Jaskier's songs have been well received, even if your  employer has been shooting your lover death glares every night he has performed.  You don’t know if he recalls that it was Jaskier that swept you out of your life in the village so long ago, or if he’s just jealous of how  you allow Jaskier affection so freely, but the older man scowls and jabs and jibes, and with him going through the coins earned tonight upstairs, there has been silence. Just you and the rag and a silent Jaskier. 

It’s true though, you did wear this dress the first night you met him. It’s a white and wine-coloured affair, pretty enough to flatter your frame but easy enough to move in during your hours working. It’s nice, flares out when you turn too quickly and dips to a respectable if a little coquettish square neckline that makes your chest more obvious. The dress is usually enough to encourage men to be more generous with their coin without hearing any comments about your being some sort of whore, and your hands leave the rag you had been using to clean to smooth the fabric about your hips. You hadn’t paid that much mind when you tugged it on this morning, but under his watchful eyes right now, you flush as though it had been deliberate. Clothing has never been something you pay much mind to but, with how Jaskier is eyeing you, you can tell that he has paid attention to it, and you realise something you hadn’t noticed earlier. He too is wearing the exact same thing he wore the night the two of you met, deep violet and sky-blue doublet and trousers, pretty and attention grabbing- but somewhat toned down compared to his usual garb.

“it was clean.” You say shyly, tucking a few stray curls behind your ear  to hear him chuckle quietly. 

“It’s beautiful. You're beautiful.” Jaskier says things like that as if they’re obvious, unintentionally making you feel foolish for any insecurity. A pathetic laugh comes from you and he tilts his head like a pup, the island of the bar between the two of you makes you feel safe; he'd never hurt you, that much you can stand your life on, but the distance between you keeps you from doing something foolish. Like kissing him. 

He’s been distant since the first night he returned to you, never letting his touch linger longer than  would be considered chaste, his kisses never turning passionate, never finding his usual respite between your thighs as he once did.  He sleeps beside you, presses kisses to the space  beneath the corner of your lips, still sings and  leans into you but doesn’t... touch as he once did. It’s as though you've fallen into some sort of time warp to before the first time you were intimate , when h e was  so concerned about making you uncomfortable that progressing seldom seemed like an option at all.  You have no clue how to fix this rift that has developed, unsure if this distance is simply because of the time you  spent apart or because he’s no longer interested in you as you’re  interested in him.

“It’s just a dress.” 

“It’s a dress that makes you look beautiful, Little Miss.” The bard insists, settling his Lute down on the newly cleaned surface of the table  before walking around it to approach you. Be it nerves or  something more embarrassing than that, you turn from him  to continue your cleaning. “...The moment I saw  you wearing it, I knew  I’d laid my eyes on the most divine creature the lands have ever known.” 

“The moment you saw me you had a woman hanging off each arm.” You retort. It’s intended to be playful, but comes out colder than expected, and you cringe at the  sound of your own voice. Petty. Absolutely fucking petty, because you know as well as him that  once you smiled his way and brushed past him to serve drinks to a group of  patrons his lady-friends were gone , and  Jaskier had sat at the bar  and spent the night talking to you as if you were the only person in th e world. You aren’t jealous , truly you aren't, the person your Dandelion had b een before you  had even known him  has never been your concern , and now you sound like  a n envious adolescent.  It’s enough to make your flesh crawl with shame.  Were you paying more attention to anything but  your own  words you might have heard Jaskier say your  name firmly, but no, you remain in your own head until  your stomach is pressed gently against the counter , kept in place by his warm, firm body behind you.  “ Jask ?”  Stupid question. Who else would it be? 

“I thought you were the most beautiful woman I could ever lay eyes on.” He breathes into your ear, sending shivers down your back. “A muse, a godsend, beautiful and intoxicating and...” His voice trails away to nothing at all while his hands rest on your hips. “Gods above and below, Missy. The sight of you alone had me willing to spend a whole night ignoring everyone else, content to spend my night obsessed with the Beauty before me and fisting at my cock until i slept to the thought of you rather than try to find someone else to spend my night with.” His voice is little more than a growl, and breathing is growing harder with every honeyed word that drips from his lips. “You, beautiful you, who didn’t care about my songs or my reputation\- just so kind and perfect and fucking beautiful.” Cold hands slide upward from your hips to rest in the dips of your waist. “So perfect I asked you to come with me. So perfect I feared telling you how I felt. Skilled with a sword and with your tongue and so much better than I will ever deserve.” 

“Julian.” You start, but no other words will follow his real name. You could worry that he's going to do something foolish, or give in and push his hands up to your breasts, but instead you simply sigh and relax into his touch. His lips press to the expanse of your throat and you feel him smile against your skin. 

“Even before I asked you to be mine, I wanted you. Needed you. Came with my fist in my mouth to the thought of you so I wouldn’t wake you. So, do not question when I tell you how I feel about you.” His growl is enough to send a rush of heat to your cunt with each word, and a painful sort of warmth to your heart. “Even without being with you, my heart has been yours since the moment I met you.” 

Logical thought dies an honourless death at the suggestion of Jaskier's want for you. Weeks of nothing at all and he decides that he ought to break that run by informing you that the first night he had even met you he had worked himself to climax to the thought of you. That the thought of you alone was enough to have him spilling onto his hand even before he had so much as kissed you. You swear you could choke at the thought, but there’s something more you want to choke on. Still, he pulls back from you, the world is off kilter and you swear you’re going to fall to your knees until you turn about to press your back to the counter, it takes less than a second for him to all but throw himself onto you- mouth over yours, tongue dipping into your mouth as though he's some adventurer trying to map out uncharted land. 

Eyes shut, his mouth on yours, you feel the  tavern around you fall away, the win d  gusting through your hair and  along your décolletage.  There is no tavern, no employer, no cleaning, no  childhood home that will almost definitely be cold as death by the time you get home. None of that exists, none of it matters at all. All that exists is his mouth, his tongue, how he manages to somehow be everywhere and  nowhere at once, intoxicating and  intangible. You could be anywhere, everywhere, with your eyes clamped shut as they are.  With no effort at all, you could imagine yourself  anywhere, the hidden spot behind a curtain while a ball happens less than a foot away from you,  the sandy  alcove of some  far-off beach,  but  the place your mind settles on is somewhere you don’t know at all ,  making you fill in the gaps to create  something out of your own memories. Oak coloured, and warm, furnished all with  deeply coloured leather, books and instruments, like Oxenfurt,  but cast half in shadows  by flickering lights  and scented like smoke and  molasses , like Yen's home.  In spite of all of that, or maybe because, it feels like home:  especially when Jaskier's lips dip down from your lips to the corner of your mouth once more to kiss at the space he calls Your Kiss. 

_ Lettenhove _ , your mind supplies the name for the place it has created ,  faster than you can remember where you know it from.  Jaskier's home. 

He’s mentioned it to you once, maybe twice, in all the years you’ve known him,  only ever to complain and insist how he hated it and would never return, but here you are, creating it in your mind . It seems only right, that he has kissed you in your childhood home that you can at least imagine his.  It feels wrong though, even if the thought remains, like a  sick secret. 

“Darling?” He asks softly, drawing your attention back to him. 

“Yes?” You ask gently while his fingers trace  circles into your waist. 

“You look sad, Dear Heart. I know I’ve been distant but please tell me that look is not disappointment as I assume.” 

“No, no. Just thinking.” 

“A dangerous past-time.” Jaskier says solemnly with a shake of his head  which you ignore. 

“Why have you been so distant of late?” 

“I. I've had a deal to think about since. Well, since.” 

“Since the mountain.” You finish the sentence for him. He nods and you nod in return.  He hasn’t told you what happened, except that Geralt and himself had parted ways on less than amicable terms.  Why that has meant the two of you haven’t been intimate is beyond you though, and you feel awkward to ask such a question. 

“I didn’t want to do anything while my mind was not entirely focused on you,  My Muse.” He admits, tracing fingers across the details of your face. “I spent months without you, trying to remember just how your skin turns pink as you  climax, the delicate arch of your back, the  contortion of your lips.  Months of  cumming to a memory, and months of  cumming to fantasies of you before I had you.  I wanted the real thing, and to appreciate it. And that meant not being distracted.”

“I could have put my mouth on you. That always relaxed you.” 

“A sweet offer, truly. Probably would have taken you up on it too.” He admits, “But I want to pay attention to you.”  Traitors that the mind and mouth are, you can’t find a single word to say, but your lips turn up in a subtle smirk and you pull away from him, slipping from his grasp. 

“Darling-" he  argues at your sudden movement, but you press your fingers to his lips with a soft  shushing sound.

“Play a game with me a while, Dandy?”  You ask intently, which catches him off guard , his hand wrapping around your wrist.  Pet names are his forte, wordplay his bread and butter,  so it doesn’t take a hair out of you when he calls you by one, but you use them fairly infrequently and they always have him blinking like a startled doe. 

“ Name the game.” 

“ First impressions.” 

“Can’t pretend I know that one, Dear Heart.  If it’s anything like Gwent I can’t see my being any good either.” He chuckles and you pull back from him with a laugh of your own. 

“Not like  Gwent. More of a playing pretend sort of game.” You clarify, though saying it makes you feel childish.  “We... we pretend this is  the first time we have met.”  He smiles at that, head tilting to the side. 

“A pretend game.”  He repeats, smile growing as he mulls over the idea.  “I like it.” 

“I’m glad.” 

“Are there any rules  to this game?” He asks and you blink. Rules had not even entered your mind, but he was right. A game should have rules. 

“...We can’t  acknowledge anything we’ve been through.” You say easily and he nods. “ And we can do whatever we wish we could have done when we first met.” 

“Sounds good to me. But one thing before we start?” He asks gently,  leaning in and loosening your hair and pressing a kiss to the crook of your neck. “Perfect. Now I can pretend not to have known you.”

“I... think we ought wait for  Kacper to leave for the night.” You whisper meekly, and though Jaskier  lets out a pained little groan  he nods slowly, pulling your hand to his lips to kiss the heel of your palm. 

“Fine. Can’t have that vile little  man watching as I have my way with you.” That makes you choke,  staring at him, wide eyed and gaping like a fish out of water while he smiles down at you like he’s simply commented on the w eather.

“You. You say that l i ke  I would have let you-  “  You falter and  snap out a quiet, “That  _ vile little man  _ is the reason we can afford food and clothes!” 

“Little Miss, please.” He interrupts you flippantly before bringing his lips down on your own once more, albeit only for a second or so. “ I have eyes. I’ve seen how the bastard looks at you. I’ve seen how every bastard looks at you.”  You  dont know what he means.  Kacper , yes,  the man is uncomfortable and not someone you want to spend any time  about, but everyone?  He’s a fool, and a paranoid one  ay that. 

“Be that as it may!” You say, hoping he doesn’t realise that you’ve essentially agreed with him. “You’re acting as ifi would have let you bed me having known me less than a night.” 

“ We'll be playing at having just met, no t completely forgetting everything . And besides, you said we could do anything we wished we had when we first met, no?” 

“I. I did.” 

“And, from the moment I met you, I’ve wanted to  taste you. And I have every intention of creating a first meeting between us where I was not such a coward as to not even attempt it.” 

“I never thought you a coward, Jaskier.” You argue but he shakes his head. 

“I know that, Dear Heart, and I wouldn’t  change our time together. But it’s just  a game of pretend.” 

“Just a game of pretend.” You agree. 

...

“I’ll be off now, Missy.”  Kacper says tiredly, holding onto the door for purchase. “ No bard?”

“He's home and asleep by now.”

“ You should go home yourself. I can walk you if you-" 

“No, no. I'll finish cleaning, it oughtn't take too long. Go rest.” You reply easily, pushing the hair that’s escaped your bun away from your eyes. “I'll be fine. I’m a big girl. I can cope.” 

“You can stay in my house if you want to avoid the walk.” He says insistently. Your flesh crawls at his lecherous smile but you fake a smile all the same. 

“I’ll be fine,  Kacper . But thank you. Sleep well." The response is sharp and firm, and the older man ducks his head in a suddenly sober nod. “Good Night.” 

“Goodnight Child.” 

Child. The looks he gives you should not be given to a child.

The tavern is empty, and you wipe at the counter in front of you out of boredom until you hear it. The click of the latch lifting followed by the soft squeal that tells you the door is opening. Your eyes stay focused on the wet surface. In this pretence of a night too long ago, you consider pretending to serve drinks to patrons that don't exist, but decide that to be a step too far and instead drop the rag to toy with your hair, leaning against the counter as if watching people that are no longer there. 

Try hard enough, and you can make out the people who had been there that night; the table of drunken older men playing Gwent who had always been especially generous in tipping you in the hopes that you might stay a while and bring luck with a smile, your own friends gathered about a table and shouting old pet names to lure you back to their table with ale, the gaggle of older women cawing and cursing about how wrong it is for a girl of your age to be working in a pub, tempting their husbands and sons. It’s familiar and alien and nostalgic all at once, making your heart ache. It was like that not four hours before, and you hadn’t had any such feelings then, but now that it is empty it feels like watching ghosts lingering at empty tables, phantoms sat in empty chairs. 

“Is it always so busy?” A voice asks from beside you, making you let out a squeak of surprise. You take in the bard as if you’ve ne’er seen him before, and it’s strange. Gods, he’s beautiful, that you already knew, but the way he’s swept his hair to one side has you convinced he’s testing your patience on purpose. He deliberately loosened your hair so you looked closer to how you had, but his hair is swept to the other side entirely. Bastard. You know he’s done it to see if you will immediately try and sort it out. You’re tempted. 

“Oh? It’s  early in the morning on  Freya's day at a tavern. It’s always busy.” You’re surprised how level your voice is, tinged with sarcasm. “You aren’t from here.” 

“Beautiful and Observant. Are all women in this town like you?” He smirks and leans on his elbow, not realising how wet the counter was until it slides along the surface, making you cackle unexpectedly. 

“Only in that lines like those won’t work on them, stranger.” You struggle out between laughs. “Ale? Wine? Food?” 

“Wine, please.” He grumbles out, pushing himself off of the counter. Any mortal man would be ashamed of having almost knocked out their front teeth on the bar, but not the bard, his lips turn up in a smirk. “And the name of the radiant being in front of me.” 

“Wine it is, Stranger.” 

“Not a stranger. Stranger has some awful implications, Pretty Thing, and a stranger is only a stranger when you know not their name.” A pale, calloused hand is thrust towards you. “Dandelion. Well, Jaskier, famed bard. Surely you've heard of me.” His voice is overcome with confidence, and you can’t help but lean on the driest part of the counter to observe him closely before breathing out your name, which he repeats. 

“That’s my name.” You say simply, leaning back to seek out a bottle of wine and pouring out a glass for the bard in front of him. “And I can’t pretend I know who you are, Bard. But if you’re famed then I presume that you can pay for your drinks.”

His face falls at that, and he begins to ooh and awe, looking through his pockets which you already know to be empty. 

“Now, Angel of the Ale, famed doesn’t necessarily mean rich-" 

“And, Bard, pretty eyes and notoriety doesn’t necessarily mean you'll get a free drink from me.” Your hand covers the brim of the glass and begin to slide it backwards toward you. “This is an establishment, not a charity.” 

“Now, Missy. Let us not be too hasty.” He argues, with a small smile. “surely a song is  enough payment for a  single glass of wine?”  This elicits an unamused sigh from you, and you lift your hand from the cup. 

“Fine, Bard. Have it. But not a word of this to anyone. The owner will have my head if he finds out.” 

“No song, Missy?” He asks and you laugh and shake your head. 

“No, no. I’m. I’m hardly one for a song. You would just be wasting a song.” 

“A shame." Jaskier drawls out, taking a sip of wine before settling you with a smile that is just on the right side of leering. “ I like to believe my songs are good enough even for those who don't know much  of music. I hear I have a very clever mouth, and a talented tongue ." 

He has a bastard of a tongue. The sort that has you flushing without obscene words, and with them? Oh,  Melitele's tits you feel like you'll fall apart. The shock written across your face is true, and he chuckles like it’s a funny joke between just you two. It is, you suppose, or would be, were it not for the vile looks that your employer sends your way when he thinks your eyes away from his.

“Excuse me-?” 

“Come, Pretty Thing, play at a role that suits you. Shocked virgin might be believable at your age were you not the most beautiful woman I could ever lay eyes upon.” Jaskier says dismissively, eyes unblinking and following you as you escape from behind the bar. It’s easy to feel like prey under his watchful gaze. 

“Not that my sexual activity is any of your business, but I am.” You respond, shakily; watching as Jaskier saunters to you, holding his chalice in one hand. “A. A virgin, I mean.” You all but whisper the last sentence, and he grins; terrible and beautiful, all teeth and gums, and he reminds you of the wolves that lived in the woods during your childhood. But then he slinks closer still, the comparison between Jaskier and wolves are not quite right. No. Geralt, wherever in the world he is, is a wolf; built to survive hardship. Close enough to resemble a person who could be kept, but far too large and dangerous for that. No. Jaskier is no wolf. 

Jaskier is a fox. Slim and small and ready to rip out your throat. Easily mistaken for a pet, even willing to play at the role, but as soon as you stop eyeing him, he returns to a state that is closer to feral than kept. You feel like a chick, eyed like a feast, waiting for him to just. Strike. And he does, just not in the way you expected- he cups your cheek gently and swipes his thumb across your cheek. 

“Then everyone in this village must be blind, if they aren’t willing to fight to the death to Kiss you, never mind bed you.” His voice is smoke and molasses and you feel like you could drown on dry land. 

“They’ve wanted to.” 

“But you haven’t?” 

“Never met someone who I had any interest in.” 

“Is your... employer here?” 

“N-no.” 

“Then, at the risk of pushing, darling-maid, I’d rather show you what pleasures the flesh can hold.”

“Push. Please.” 

.....

Games of pretend  as an adult are  much different than they were when you were a child. As a child you toyed at being a princess,  a dragon, a knight; now, you’re pretending not to know the love of your life as he buries his face between your thighs,  shoved over a table that you cleaned while his clever tongue works it’s way inside of you from behind. 

The wood under you is  so, so cold, but his mouth is intoxicatingly warm.  Having his mouth on you is nothing new, not at all, but it has you feeling drunk : like having gulped down a tavern's worth of wine,  giddy and all  appendages tingling. It’s  right and comfortable and new all at once. This position especially, face down on a table with him down on his knees before you , the Bard insists on seeing your face \- be it so he can kiss you or see the minute changes in your face that tell him that you’re close , but tonight all you can see is the floor and not the mop of brunet locks and wide, blue eyes.  The change is fine, welcome, but not enjoyed as much as the alternative. 

He’s made a romantic out of you, you don’t know if you should  like or despise that fact. Women in the pub ask often about  your musical lover and his talented tongue and fine fingers, asking if the length of them extends to other more personal parts of his anatomy, which you always laugh off.  Small villages such as this thrive on gossip and you couldn’t bear it were your intimate goings on to become the talk of the town, but really, you’ve other reasons to be silent on the matter. How do you explain to someone that  it’s not about the fingers that crook within you as it is the fact he always knows exactly where to do so?  Could you ever find the words to describe that talented though his tongue may be, it’s the fact that you feel him use it to trace the words  _ I love you _ against your most personal flesh, as he is right now?  Can there be a means of saying that large as your lover's cock might be, and that he is  _ well aware _ how to use it and that he uses it well, your pleasure comes more from the softness in  storm-coloured eyes  that bore deep into  your soul all while that  thick length fills you to the point of no return? Never mind a romantic, he's made some poet out of you . You never knew poetry and syphilis were transmitted the same way  but you'd rather the former than the latter.

Missing his eyes on you, you whimper and reach back for his hair only to have it pinned to the table  beneath you. With a long  lick from your clit down to your entrance Jaskier pulls back , only to stare at your sex while panting \- the warm air passing along your  soaked cunt and making you quake . 

“I was right, Pretty  Thing. People should fight to the death to Kiss you. Especially  kiss these lips you so cruelly hide.”  He sounds as drunk as you feel, words slurring  over themselves. 

“Bard. Bard please.” You whine, digging your nails into the table . There's a breathless chuckle behind you,  followed by a wet kiss to the meat of your thigh, where  leg meets arse. 

“Do you want something, Angel of the Ale?” He chuckles, nipping at the skin. 

“Julian~” You whine loudly  and Jaskier lets out a whisper of something that sounds suspiciously like finally, followed by a sharp  swat to your cunt, wet slap echoing through the empty air.  You'll never be able to work comfortably again, instead you'll be haunted by the  memory of Jaskier's most triumphant performance to date:  being able to bring you to the brink of orgasm without talking. No compliments, no whispered coos of  _ Little Miss  _ or  _ Dear Heart  _ to encourage you. Just his tongue. 

“So much for your game of pretend, Little Miss. ” Jaskier sighs, but there's nothing but amusement in his voice.  “I thought we were strangers?” 

“Changed my mind.” You choke out while his fingers spread the lips of your entrance wide open. “If I wanted to  fuck a stranger, I would. I want my  Buttercup to make love to me.” 

“ Make love to you, eh?” Words fan across wet flesh and you could swear you have reached n irvana. 

“I want the love of my life to stop playing silly buggers and fuck me until I sob, yes.” 

He moans at that, weak and wanton as he bucks his hips into your calf , the proof of his want dragged against your skin like a dog rutting.  Ever since he called you that in Oxenfurt, it’s been a secret sort of weapon for you.  Losing an argument? Tell him he’s the love of your life. See him glaring across the  tavern at a man whose eyes have been on you a second too long? Love of your life.  It might be cruel were it not true. 

“Gods, Dear Heart, you're a cruel mistress.” You feel him smile as he bucks against you once more, thick and hard under layers of fabric. “ _Play pretend, Jaskier._ _Make love to me, Jaskier. You're the love of my life, Jaskier._ What next? _I simply won’t rest until your cock is in my mouth, Jaskier?_ You're going to be the death of me.” He smiles, you can feel soft lips as he kisses up from beneath the crease of your arse to the thickest point. “I’m half convinced you’re trying to kill me.” 

“Never.” Comes the earnest reply. “I can hardly spend forever with you  if you’re dead.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and you’re half convinced  you’ve gone too far but a thought creeps unbidden into your mind to fill the gaps.  Something he said in Oxenfurt, which slips from your mouth with  honest ease. 

“I'd marry you this second if I could.” 

Eyes slip closed as if waiting for some inevitable fallout, but none comes. Instead, you’re rolled onto your back and tugged up with such an intensity you worry the table might capsize. 

“... A hell of a place to propose, Little Miss.”  He returns your own words back to you , eyes soft while his  hand  come s up to frame your face, fingers ghosting across the scar on your eye. The wound that kept you apart so long.  The other rests on the crook of your neck, where if you cast your mind back far enough, you recall a wound being once, from some sort of  vampire .  He’s held your life inside you with trembling hands more often than you would like to think  about, and you reach up to rest a hand over the space on his chemise where you know his heart ought  be .  It thunders along at  a pace too fast for you to know  it as you normally would, reminds you of how your own feels after fighting, fucking, but your own heart is beating slowly, pumping along  at a relaxed pace under the touch of his fingers. 

“Well. I’m no poet.” 

“No. No, you aren’t.” He agrees.  “I. I recall someone else saying that once before too.” 

“Well. ” You reply melodiously,  fingers straying from  the fabric  to the thatch of hair across his chest.  D owny , dark hair , always keeping you a layer away from  him- thick enough to keep you from seeing the flesh beneath but fine enough to feel his warmth seeping through .  “ He  never got about to proposing, so I assumed I could take the line for myself.” 

“Excuse you, Dear Heart !” He sounds scandalized ,  like some rich old bat who asked for petunias and was gifted peonies by mistake. “ I think you will find  one of us refused to propose in his old place of education and spent every day afterwards trying to earn coin enough to buy you a proper ring , and as soon as  I did you near died \- oh. Oh shit. I didn’t mean to say that. ” 

“You. You bought me a ring?” You ask incredulously.  It doesn’t sound real. Jaskier bought a ring. For you. 

“Of course.”

“You. You, Jaskier, bought me a ring?” You ask again,  mind unable to fully understand what it is he's said. 

“I told you I wanted to marry you!”  He replies sharply, eyes narrowed a little as if anticipating a fight about it, but all you can do is grin up at him . 

“You want to marry me.” 

“I do. ” He confirms, softening from the annoyance as easily as he hardened into it. “ Not where I wanted to propose-" 

“Then don’t. Not here.” You insist.  “ Melitele's tits, I like to think  I'm quite free and easy about these sorts of things but I’d rather you not propose in the tavern I work in.” 

“Good. Especially as I don’t have the ring to hand.” 

“ As long as you plan on marrying  me, I don’t mind when it happens .” 

You mean it too, but he shakes his head, leaning down to kiss you softly on the tip of your nose. 

“You commandeer my proposal,  destroy the element of surprise, make me tell you my plans. What  am I  to do with you?” 

“Keep me forever?”  You prompt and he smiles and kisses you gently, hands sliding down to your hips,  tugging your skirts up once more to eye your quim.  “Jaskier?” 

“I need to get you home right now.” He whispers softly,  eyes moving from your sex to your eyes. “So  that  I can  make up for lost time.” 

“...Why not start here?” 

“It’s  hardly romantic after admitting I want to marry you.”

“Bath and Bed?” You offer but he chuckles. 

“I think some things may need to go in the middle and the end.”


End file.
